


CTRL+Shift

by AdultDiversion



Category: Halt and Catch Fire
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdultDiversion/pseuds/AdultDiversion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheap thrills at Cardiff's ship-off party for the Giant. Well, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	CTRL+Shift

“Don’t be ridiculous, you look amazing!”

He huffed and paused his fretting to look over Donna’s shoulder, into the mirror. She’d been right. The suit was cut to perfection, as it well should be – it was the most expensive piece of clothing Gordon had ever owned. He studied himself, noticing how legs appeared longer, shoulders broader, his form taller. And still, Gordon cringed internally at the idea of facing Joe like this: like a timid, awkward high-schooler, trying to fake it in a suit made for someone taller, richer, someone like Joe. Joe, with his six-feet-four-inches, his commercial blowout hair, and his face like something from an Art Deco-poster, chiseled in steel. Fucking Joe.

Donna watched him with a coy smile as she reached up to his face, lifting away his glasses. Through the hazy perspective, the mirror finally revealed the glaringly obvious flaw in his get-up. The beard. It had to go.

“Give me ten minutes,” he told Donna, grabbing the door as he went into the master bathroom. He located a one-time razor, wet his face with a hand towel, smoothed shaving cream over cheeks, chin and neck. Perhaps Joe, in his soulless apartment, stood in the same way right now, right in front of his own bathroom mirror. Gordon bet Joe never nicked himself - the skin on Joe's face always seemed perfectly smooth. Flawless. Well, except for that one time Joe showed up at the office, beat halfway to a pulp, and still managed to look maddeningly dashing. Everything about Joe appeared so fucking effortless and breezy. The way he would talk people into neat, little ribbons around his little finger, the way he would hold a glass of scotch in his hand, so loosely that it looked ready to slip out of his grasp, but never escaping. The way Joe, when sitting, would lazily sink into and extend beyond the chair at the same time; spreading his long legs, demanding room. The way Joe let trousers stretch over his hips, shamelessly revealing the not-so-subtle hint of a bulge under Italian, tailor-cut fabric.

Three sharp knocks and the sound of Donna’s muffled voice broke through the door.

“Gordon, are you doing okay in there?”

“Uh-huh,” he replied through o-shaped lips, rinsing the razor in cold water, smacking it demonstratively against the sink. The shadows of her feet disappeared from the crack under the door.  
The left side of his face was done now: ready-shaven, new. That new side looked older, in a way that had nothing to do with aging, and everything to do with aura, authority. Gordon saw his cheekbones stand out, found the curve of his lips, which had been hiding for years below the coarse, brown hair. He wondered what Joe might think. Perhaps Joe might quirk an eyebrow to signal that Gordon’s beardless face was duly –patronizingly – noted, but nothing more. He surely wouldn’t comment on it. Joe wasn’t one for handing out acknowledgement, unless he wanted something form Gordon – even then, he kept Gordon on his toes, pining for approving words, gestures, or a single, affirmative glance. Joe always had the upper hand, and didn’t even have to try. It irritated Gordon immensely, but even more, he found himself fascinated by the pull Joe had on him, that dragged him kicking and screaming to Joe, that bent him to his will.

Gordon pictured Joe, already arrived at Cardiff, wandering between the cubicles and guests in the office, mingling. How Joe's smooth appearance, all custom-made garments and finely shorn features, only served to highlight that wild glint in Joe’s eyes, mockingly feral, or like he were hiding something, as if he reveled in being alone in knowing this something, looking forward to exposing it, to shock them all. Gordon pictured himself approaching Joe, by the brand new showcase, glass walls confining a rotating pedestal, displaying a Giant,  _their_  Giant. He saw himself becoming aware of the fact that he was without a drink, forcing him to do an awkward retreat towards the makeshift office bar, before making his way back to Joe, who would grant him a quick shot of a glance, smirking:

“Congratulations. So, what was that code you were working on, earlier?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s not important, it can wait”.

Joe rested a forearm to brace his weight against the glass walls, looking down at Gordon with sharp eyes. “Are you sure? Because if it is important, this is your chance to stop the shipment.”

Gordon sighed. “I--”

“I think we had best go in your office. We’re not shipping out trash. You’ll have to show me that it’s ready.”

Scanning the crowd of decked-out colleagues and clients, Gordon’s eyes located Donna, at the far end of the room behind the cubicles. She threw her head back, laughing at some joke cracked by some tall, handsome programmer; a champagne flute rested lightly against her collarbone.

“Okay, but it can’t take much time. Let’s go.”

The office door was unlocked, and Joe followed him inside. On his way towards his desk, Gordon heard the soft click of the door locking, and turned to find Joe wringing off his blazer.

“Are you, uh, warm?”

Joe’s eyes fixed on his from underneath heavy lids and lashes, his lips softly parted; Gordon could barely see the tongue resting behind them.

“No,” came the dark reply.

The sudden, red burning against his throat made Gordon flinch, flinging his razor into the basin. He grabbed a hand towel, pressing it against the cut. Well,  _that_  was surely something Joe wouldn’t mind commenting on: new suit, new face – no match for the injuries Gordon involuntarily inflicted upon himself.

“Let me see your neck,” Joe said, closing the distance between them in two long strides. Gordon swallowed heavily.

“It’s just a razor cut.” He flinched back - too late - as Joe’s hand closed underneath his jaw, pulling his face towards Joe, a crisp scent of scotch and toothpaste hitting him as Joe whispered:

“Amateur.”

And then, Joe’s lips were upon his own, Joe’s firm, purposeful lips, sucking hold on his bottom lip, tasting it. A soft, wet sound as the kiss broke. Gordon pulled back, viewing the steady, half-bent arm chaining them together.

“What the fu…”

And again, Joe was on him. The grip under Gordon’s jaw released, Joe secured his hand behind the neck while Gordon’s mouth opened, seemingly on its own accord, to a warm, searching tongue. He felt his own tongue answering, briefly, pushing against it, before breaking away, panting, backing away towards his desk.

“What the hell, Joe?!” He cringed, touching his lips in disbelief, leaning for support against the desk, out of breath.

He was rock hard.

Joe came at him with fast strides, locking his hands at Gordon’s hips; again, Gordon registered how tall Joe was, how the other man towered over him. The top button in Joe’s shirt was open, Gordon felt the dark, heady scent of him escaping from the collar; the vibrations from Joe's baritone hanging between them:

“Stop it. Stop playing around, like you don’t w…”

Gordon grabbed Joe’s face with both hands, pulling him down, kissing him with the same intensity he had used to back away moments earlier. He felt the other man grinding against him, strong hands forcing them together; Joe’s erection pressed against his shirt, his stomach. Gordon tore his hands away from Joe’s face, pushing them towards Joe’s belt, tugging at the buckle with useless, fumbling hands. With an exasperated groan, Joe shoved his hands away. Gordon didn’t know where to place his eyes; the sight of Joe’s hands undoing the buckle, to the sounds of leather against fabric, or Joe’s jawline above him and that goddamned, sculptured philtrum. Joe pulled the belt’s strap out of the buckle with a smack, and opened the button in his trousers. The dark shape of his cock pressed against the zipper.

Joe’s hands bore down on his shoulders, pushing Gordon to his knees. Gordon could only register how he  _let_  himself be pushed down. What did Joe want, besides the obvious? What did he want from  _him_? Why this, now? All Gordon was sure of, was that he cared as little as he knew.  
He pulled the zipper of Joe’s trousers, hooking his thumbs inside the waistband, pulling the fabric down in one, swift motion. Bouncing from the movement, Joe’s dick sprang out, hard and ready. Gordon grabbed the base, felt the warmth and the smell of sex against his face, sucking his lips wet, bending over Joe. Lips lowered onto the head, slid softly, halfway down the shaft. With the pad of his thumb, Gordon could feel the blood surging into and swelling the cock, making it harder still. Joe’s hands buried in his hair; Gordon heard the hissing of a sigh from above, mixed into the sound of his lips on Joe’s dick. Pressing down at the base with his fingers, Gordon let the tip of his tongue slide along the cock’s underside, following the vein to the tip, circling the curve, before he folded his lips around the head again, _sucking_.

Forcing Gordon’s face backwards, Joe pulled his hair, looking down at him.

“This doesn’t mean you get a bigger cut of the profit shares.”

Gordon responded by lifting his left hand to cup Joe’s sack, surrounding it inside a tight grip. A short, sharp gasp escaped above him. Joe should know better than to play with fire while being held by the balls. Finally, even with Joe’s dick inches from his face, Gordon had the upper hand. He could cradle Joe, stroking him gently, sucking him into oblivion. Or: he could tighten his grip around the sack, wring it and twist it, or bite down instead of sucking, causing irreparable damage. Gordon could hurt or please as it suited him, and the though did probably not even register with Joe.

He chose to go with Joe’s dick in his mouth, for now, as far as he could manage before the tip pressed against the back of his palate. With his right hand, he slicked the shaft with spit and precum. He brought his hand to his mouth, made an extension of his lips, tightening his fingers to a tract. He felt Joe shiver as the he slid up and down the shaft, rhythm steady, increasing pressure. With the other hand, he tightened his grip around Joe’s balls for a moment, before letting his fingers slip towards Joe’s perineum, caressing it with light strokes. Joe’s fingers tightened in Gordon’s hair; Joe’s fingers dug into his temples. Gordon let a middle finger travel between Joe’s glutes, let it rest there, pressing lightly against the tight opening. Joe gave a ragged moan, held harder around Gordon’s head still, hips lifting to buck into Gordon.

Gordon kept the grasp around the dick with lips and right hand, stroking the head and underside with his tongue, moaning onto Joe, feeling Joe shaking into the vibrations of sound. His middle finger flirted with Joe’s opening; stroking and pushing, at the brink of penetration. He felt the cock harden suddenly against lips and fingers; how a weak pulse took shape and gained momentum, how the balls continued to tighten as they brushed against Gordon’s hands. Joe’s breath grew heavier, faster, erratic – the rhythm stopped, he drew air – before Joe’s hands moved to brace Gordon’s jaws, steering Gordon’s face towards his pelvis at increasing speed, fucking himself into Gordon. Gordon felt the hints of contractions by Joe’s opening, tightened his fingers around the shaft, tasted the pulsing of the head of Joe’s cock, before ---

On his feet, he wiped his lips with the back of a hand, retreating a few steps, adjusting his suit, surveying Joe’s compromised position.

“Oh, come ON!”

“No,” Gordon smirked back.

Joe rested his hands behind him on Gordon’s desk, pants down, his dick weeping precum, the shaft moving feebly in the throbbing absence of Gordon’s mouth and hands. Joe was staring him down with a look that would have instilled the fear of God in Gordon. _Normally_.

Shrugging easily, Gordon turned and made for the door.

 

“Gordon, what are you doing in there? We’re already ten minutes late!”

Donna’s voice yanked him back into the bathroom, to the sight of himself in the mirror: clean-shaven, suit-clad, and sporting an erection that his blazer could do nothing to hide.  
He unlocked and opened the door wide. Donna was wearing a quizzical face and a black, low-cut dress. Her white breasts pressed against the neckline.

“They can wait for another ten minutes.”

He picked her up, carrying her the few feet over to their double bed, before throwing her down on the covers. The quizzical expression was gone, replaced by a wicked grin as she lifted a hand, stroking a smooth cheek as he leaned over her. He smiled back.

“It  _is_  my computer, after all.”

 

_FIN_

 


End file.
